


Coming Out of the Cabinet

by modbees



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Angst, Brexit, But also dead serious, Crack, M/M, PMQs, Recreational Drug Use, Treating poor people badly, Unrequited Love, We are serious politics students, my chemical romance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-10-10 18:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10444716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modbees/pseuds/modbees
Summary: "He was a chancellor of the exchequer. He was a prime minister. Can I make it any more obvious?" - Avril Lavigne





	1. The Adventures of a Coke Ant

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so my pal and I were/are currently very drunk and we plan to continue this exquisite piece of art in future. I hope you like our vision of beauty. This will eventually have several chapters and an excellently arched story line. Enjoy (like Blair enjoyed his majority in the HoC AMIRITE?!)

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            Over the five years of the coalition between David and his beloved Nick, making sweet love into the night, lying to Samantha about where he was going, he couldn’t honestly say he’d paid attention to George in that way. George, the man in the shadows who lusted after him privately.

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            One day in November of 2014, George walked into Cameron’s office to find Clegg, perched on the edge of the Prime Minister’s desk, his shirt and trousers disgracefully dishevelled with David standing between his thighs, kissing him passionately as if he was his mildly attractive cousin. George muttered his brusque apologies and stepped backwards through the door, catching the sight of his colleague’s shocked expressions, his heart smashing like a stepped on cactus, water leaking out of every orifice. Even though he’d known about the pair’s shenanigans (e.g. consistent brutal fucking in the PM’s office which seemed to lead to the disappearance of the odd cactus), witnessing it in such a way, with no forewarning, made George face the bitter reality of David’s desires. After that, the next few days were a self-destructive cycle. He jogged down the corridors of Downing Street, passing TRESemmé who looked down the corridor after him, concerned. He pushed the door open into the bathroom and drank feverishly from the tap (due to his dangerous lack of fluids, after all of the leaking) and pulled a bag of **_QUALITY DRUGS™_** from his suit jacket pocket, dumping it all onto the toilet seat before burying his face desperately into the pile of white powder.

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            Now in his final form, an ant, George buried himself into the garden of the House of Commons, his antennae following the sound of some mysterious calling. Except he wasn’t in the Commons garden, he was just desperately pawing at the stone floor.

__

            There wasn’t even a Commons garden. He was just off his tits on **_QUALITY DRUGS™_** in a Downing Street bathroom. He stood and stared at his melting face in the mirror and mentally added courgettes to his shopping list. The following weekend was filled with drinking, **_QUALITY DRUGS™_** , some cheeky bum sex (Keith Vaz hit him up with his pal’s number), more **_QUALITY DRUGS™_** and listening to My Chemical Romance BANGERS with a glass of Rosé as he sat crying in his extra-large dishwasher as bits of pasta flew past his vision. Some mince landed on his cheek and he briefly questioned the morality of the meat industry before swiftly taking more **_QUALITY DRUGS™_**.

__

            He didn’t hear from David until the following Tuesday after George grew jealous and lamped a 97 year old woman in his constituency surgery after she said how much cheeky bum sex she was having with her boo before proceeding to bare his testicles and exclaim “BOOM!” over her unconscious body. He’d been called into the Prime Minister’s office and was instructed to lock the door behind him before being shoved forcefully against the wall.            

__

            “What the FUCK are you playing at George?!” yelled David in his posher than strictly necessary voice, his face inches from his Chancellor’s.

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            George stumbled over his words, feeling conflicted with the proximity of his superior. “David, it’s, I, I-”

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            “No, actually I don’t want to hear your damn excuses. You’re off your head!”

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            George was, in fact, coming down from the previous night’s excursion into the land of drug fuelled agony after he’d had a bad trip as a result of his **_SLIGHTLY POORER QUALITY DRUGS™_**. “I’m sorry David. I really am, I just…”

__

            David’s face momentarily softened before becoming as hard as George’s tiny erection once again. “Just… just make sure you’re ready for Questions tomorrow George,” he said and reached over him, grasping the door handle. George wished he’d grasp something else. Like his heart (YOU SINFUL INDIVIDUALS I KNOW WHAT YOU WERE THINKING).

__

            He left without uttering another syllable.

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\---

__

            The next day, George steeled himself in a mirror inside the Parliament toilets. Dennis Skinner MP shat furiously in a cubicle behind him, shouting northern expletives as yesterday’s vegan sundae dribbled out of him.

__

            “Get it together George,” he said as he stared back into his hollow, pale features.

__

            He’d thought PMQs had gone well; he’d managed to conceal his state with a couple lines of QUALITY DRUGS in the same cubicle Skinner MP had released his waste for the fish of the wide ocean to happily consume, smelling mildly of decomposing testicles. But oh how he was wrong. All of the news broadcasters were commenting on how peculiar his behaviour was seated beside the Prime Minister in Prime Minister’s Questions the next day. ‘Was Osborne intoxicated?’ Yes he fuckin’ was, but he didn’t want anyone to know that.

__

            The Prime Minister wasn’t happy and, once again, he was called into his office.

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            This time, his voice was calm and level as he spoke. “Gideon,” he said, and George’s stomach twisted with lust.

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            “Ouch,” said Gideon. “My stomach is twisting with lust.”

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            David disregarded this and instead said, “Look, I know you saw… us, Nick and I, the other day. Is that why you’ve been behaving the way you have?”

__

He nodded.

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            “Oh,” he sighed, and then, “But why?”

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George stared aghast, his white ghostly flesh rippling ominously. “You really don’t know?”

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            “Know what?”

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            George didn’t speak. He strode with two swift steps towards David and David instinctively raised his hands to grasp his elbows, meeting him half way into a deep, stroking kiss. The chancellor felt the Prime Minister’s tongue flick lovingly against his prefrontal cortex and moaned.

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            As if snapped back into reality by the foreign sound, David pushed George gently away, gasping for breath, gazing into his cold dead eyes. “No, Gideon, this is wrong. Sam… Nick…”

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            “How didn’t you know, David? All these years? The moment I laid eyes on you…” He swallowed. “Frances knows,” he said, still clinging to the Prime Minister. “She’s known for years. She tells me I mutter your name in my sleep, while I rub my Ba’noodle™”

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            “George, that’s….” David didn’t finish his sentence.

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            “I know, I know. Maybe it’s the drugs, maybe not. I just want you to grasp...”

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            And David did. He reached down into Osborne’s 90s hammer pants and held his cone shaped dongle with his left hand. With his right he fondled his nip nop through his shirt and continued to kiss his pale, thin lips.

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            George was too riled up to correct the man stood feeling his body. In reality, he truly meant for the PM to grasp the depth of love and affection he felt for him, but his doodle was more than good enough. For now.

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	2. The Vagrant in the Shopping Trolley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly this is a work of art and should be enjoyed as such

 

           

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                Their first encounter was brief. A quick toss, a slight “UGHH” and the Prime Minister left, after saying goodbye in a muttered, sorry tone.

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                George lay on the floor, his ominous body stretched like a starfish on the office carpet. What had he done? Since Cameron’s first, seductive request to sit on the leather seat at the front of the Commons, he’d harboured feelings for him. And now they were released. It all felt a bit anti-climactic, laying there, a whacking oyster in his Y fronts, but he knew there’d be more…

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                The next day, Georgie boy woke from his peaceful slumber in his four poster bed, each corner supported by the disembodied head of a poor person and whacked on a bit of Madonna (whom he loves. We fact checked for this piece of art I’ll have you know). The calming melody of Like A Virgin washed over George as he had his morning seizure. As his eyeballs threatened to pop out of his face, he pondered the day’s outfit.

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                He thought a nice, tight, lilac, cashmere V neck jumper would do, fit with boot cut jeans and some black lipstick. He put on his nice, tight, lilac, cashmere V neck jumper and acid washed boot cut jeans, but skipped the black lipstick because he felt it was a questionable fashion choice. Or at least that’s what he felt he’d say if anyone asked. In reality, he felt it would look odd on the Prime Minister’s DICK, and that was what was on his mind that day, David’s throbbing THRUPENCE, in and around his mouth.

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                The sunshine outside was glorious and George felt glorious as well. Not only was he off the **_QUALITY DRUGS™,_** but he was on the way to see David. Yes, the sex had commenced, but what glorious decadence was to follow? Although the guy Keith Vaz hooked him up with wouldn’t take a hint and hid under his bed every morning, hoping for some cheeky bum sex and a quick sale of his frankly **_EXCELLENT NARCOTICS™,_** a rival brand of an equal quality.

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                He wandered into town in his excellent ensemble and happened upon a vagrant gentleman, exactly what he was looking for.

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                “Good morning, vagrant,” said George. “You will accompany me to the nearest Waterstones, but first we must visit The Asda or whatever that place is called where poor people nourish their pathetic bodies.”

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                The supermarket wasn’t far (it was a fucking trek really, he passed 8 Waitroses on his way and kicked several big issue sellers in the left tit) and George spotted a shopping trolley near the building.

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                “These cost MONEY?!” he yelled at his vagrant.

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                The vagrant pondered for a second and then said, hesitantly, “Yes sir. You have to put a pound in the slot. You get it back when you return the trolley, sir.”

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                “Oh,” said George. He looked into his pockets; only 50 pound notes lingered within. He took one out and said to the dirty peasant person, “Do they do change?” and stuffed the note into the slot. To his dismay, the trolley did not move.

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                The vagrant, whose name was actually Quentin Rodriguez, and who had a degree in fine art and a stonking heroin addiction, nodded vaguely, and said “Well, you do actually need the coin.”

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                Gideon looked out into the distance and said, “Give me your money, you lazy individual, you. Where are you government handouts and the like?”

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                “Well, I don’t really get any on account of being homeless and all, but a nice woman gave me a quid yesterday. You can have that if you want.” he said.

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                George did not question the morality of the action (LIKE HE DOESN’T ANY OF HIS ACTIONS AMIRITE) before snatching the coin from his newly acquired vagrant and shoving it forcefully into the slot like an egg into a letter box. The chain fell free from the trolley and the vagrant climbed inside. George found it odd, but this just happened to be exactly what he wanted to happen.

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                Their next stop was the Waterstones in town, highly overpriced and a bit rubbish, just like Gideon liked his things. He trundled up through the automatic doors (why the fuck are they automatic?) with his trolley and got funny looks from no less than 4 weird people actually BUYING books from a shop and not Amazon. The bearded gentleman behind the till questioned him in a thick South African accent about why he had a fully grown, clearly homeless person in a trolley in a branch of Waterstones, to which he responded, “I own ALL THE MONEY.”

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                He strolled over to the backroom, the erotic novel section, where he went to… indulge himself. Over ninety titles stood before him: ‘Passion Flame’, ‘Moon Love’, ‘Worm Blood’. And there were too many to pick only one. The vagrant’s use finally came into fruition. “Vagrant,” he said, “put out your hand”.

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                And, with that, he did. Gideon ran at the bookshelf, the vagrant’s hand ploughing through book after book, knocking them into the metal reciprocal that was the shopping trolley. Every title haphazardly tumbled into George’s collection of purchases. The price didn’t matter. It never mattered. Besides, it was always claimed back on his expenses anyway.

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                ‘Fools. Those damn tax payers. Do they not know they work for Me?’, George thought as the bearded man scanned through ‘Pussy Riot III: Vagina on the Edge’, a novel by Enid Blyton.

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                Once George had paid an extortionate amount for his collection of books, he wandered out of the book shop with his erotica and his vagrant and tipped the dirty peasant from his vicinity. He looked at him admiringly.

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                “It’s as if you’ve done that before, vagrant.”

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                “I have, you picked me up a couple of weeks ago and you had me sweep fifteen copies of Louis Spence’s autobiography: _Still Got It, Never Lost It_ from the pound shop.”

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                “Oh, did I?” he asked. “You all look the same to me, you poor folk. Now be gone, foul creature!!” And Quentin scuttled away, a thieved fifty pound note clutched in his palm.

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                George packed his two Kath Kidson backpacks full of his erotic novels and headed for Downing Street to see David. The weird poor policeman on the door was surprised to see him and gazed down at his erect nipples. In hindsight, George reckoned the nice, tight, lilac, cashmere V neck jumper was a mistake, as his nipples were quite present in anyone’s line of vision. The man let him in anyway and he tiptoed up to the Prime Minister’s office, quietly humming the Mission Impossible theme tune to himself. Halfway up the stairs, he spotted David, coming down the steps and carrying an important file in his newly pressed suit (better than Corbyn’s PSHHHHH). David spotted George’s pale, dead face and stopped.

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                “George,” he said, jovially, and smiled. “Come, we’ve much to discuss, I’m sure.”

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                George’s face lit up and he mentally high fived himself, whilst also physically high fiving himself. This received a brief startled look from the Prime Minister before he turned, still smiling, back towards his office. George swiftly followed.

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                Inside the office, he watched David stride towards his desk. He looked around him at the familiar walls. Everything was in its place. He noticed that his superior’s smile had quickly faded.

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                “Get out guys,” he said to Alistair Campbell and Peter Mandelson who were sitting in the corner by the coat rack and, like, ya know, hung around Dave’s office every now and then and partook in some banterous activity for the hell of it. They groaned like Kevin out of _Kevin and Perry Go Large_ , a great film that is currently on Netflix (at the time of publishing). George and David were left in excruciating, deafening silence for approximately six minutes and thirty eight seconds before David spoke.

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                “George,” he said in a firm, yet soft voice, “what happened between us…” He hesitated before continuing. “It was nothing serious. Nothing special. In fact half of my front bench has experienced the Davey twizzler. I even managed to get my hands on Jacob Rees Mogg who was perfectly happy to serenade my ball sack.”

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                Every one of David’s words cut into George like a cactus spike to the nether regions, but he’d be damned if he showed it. “I see, sir,” he said and shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his erotica laden backpacks (plural). The gesture was pointless now. He planned to fling them from his designer student wear along with his nice, tight, lilac, cashmere V neck jumper to reveal his heavy, flaky chest. He’d always heard that snow was romantic, maybe artificial snow of the dead skin variety was even more so. It was personal. Just for his David. But perhaps he wasn’t his David after all. The rest of his words washed over George who grew colder and number with each passing second.

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                “I’m sorry George, but you know my situation.”

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                “Yes, sir,” and he left.

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                George skipped, sobbing through number 10 and crashed into the door, not quite realising that the poor person in charge of opening the door, hadn’t opened the bloody door. The light of his love had been snuffed out, like a _Candle in the Wind™_ as Elton John had once sung about in front of a grieving monarch who didn’t really give a fuck.

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                He crawled 0.7 miles to Westminster. 200 yards into this journey, Keith Vaz caught up with him and gave him the rest of his **_QUALITY DRUGS™._** He stood, purposefully and looked over the city (having for some reason scaled the side of a building) and buried his face into the white powder. George continued, heart broken and now desperate to clean his mandibles.

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                The coke ant had returned and was hell-bent on revenge.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for SKY THATCHER


	3. Sky Thatcher

            Westminster called his little anty name. The houses of parliament, his place of work, were all that could make him feel safe. He stretched on the pavement near the men with the fuckin massive guns and screamed his li’l anty scream, “WHYY?”

            George collapsed and pounded the pavement, the clicking of camera phones adding to the chorus of yells that suddenly erupted above him. The yells, the cameras snapping, the crowds, the fear of his li’l anty body being tread on all blended into white noise surrounding him, oppressing upon him the darkness of his reality. He was no longer an ant, he was an angry upper-middle class politician having a bit of a tantrum, frankly, outside parliament before a soft voice penetrated (ooh cheeky use of language there) the din.

            “Gideon,” said the soft voice. George didn’t know where the voice was coming from at first before he rolled onto his back and gazed into the clouds above him.

            “Maggie?”

            The disembodied face of the late great Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher hovered above him in all her ugly, wrinkled, evil glory. Her hair was coiffed shitly upon her head and George admired every crevice of her face. This amazing hallucination which his mind had concocted for him was about to deliver messages from his subconscious, he knew it. And he was ready for that deep shit.

            “Yes, Gideon, it’s me. I’m here to help you, Gideon.”

            George didn’t need this clarifying. He’d known this all along, since he’d first seen her image. What he needed most now was the gentle yet strong advice of Britain’s greatest leader (no, not Clement Attlee who is the obvious choice, the greatest leader according to complete cunts e.g. Tories).

            “My advice to you, George,” she said, “is that he will come to you.” As she had no hands with which to gesture, she waggled her shitly pencilled right eyebrow furiously and George knew immediately what she was trying to convey.

            “He loves me,” he whispered, much too quietly for Margaret to hear, but she did. Of course she did. She was in his twatting head.

            “Urgh, don’t be gay,” she said. “Didn’t mean it like that you poof.”

            “But mistress…” he began to say and then he slowly became aware that the people around him were no longer yelling, they were screaming and crying, their faces pointed skyward at the spot where George envisioned Thatcher. Only he gradually realised that she wasn’t a hallucination. The ordinary folk could see her too. And then her eyes flashed red like book Voldemort and her scales bristled.

            “Now, Gideon, for this country is once again mine.” She directed her next words towards those fleeing from her laser gaze. “I shall destroy ‘Great’ Britain like I did the trade unions!” she cackled maniacally, her yellowing incisors exposed to the horrified public and jowls swaying elegantly in the increasingly strong wind.

            Gideon, still staring at the sky could only watch as fire reigned down from above. Income under £20,000 a year? Immediately incinerated.   No point burdening the health system she was going to get rid of anyway.

            “My tyranny failed the first time, but now… NOW I SHALL EXERCISE MY POWER WITH AN IRON FIST.”

            And then she exercised her power with a metaphorical iron fist because she didn’t have any hands.

 

**THE END**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            AHHHH, GOT YA THERE, JUST KIDDIN’.

            Suddenly, there was the sound of metal paws galloping, but like, in a shit way. Like a race horse off its tits on ket. And then, like a hip, white Ghandi, Jeremy Corbyn emerged from round the corner, upon the back of one of them lions out of Trafalgar Square. He brandished in his left hand a hammer and in his right a sickle (subtle imagery for GCSE analysis. I’m _handing_ this A to you Timothy. Pay attention) with which he slashed and battered fleeing bankers like an angry fishmonger. At the same moment, the reanimated corpse of Clement Attlee rose up from the Thames. Don’t really know why it was in the river like. Maybe it was on holiday there.  His left lung slid lovingly from his rib cage like a snake in an open snake enclosure, along with his liver which was more like a disconcerted lizard. He raised his fist in a comradely gesture, but his hand, like, just dropped off because he was dead as fuck. This did not deter him, however and Corbyn came to a stop, feet from Gideon’s writhing, sweaty body. Thatcher stopped laughing immediately and pointed her eyebrows at Jeremy Corbyn.  

            “Ahhh! Socialism! My biggest weakness!” she cried, her freckled jowls now flapping desperately in the sky like a large bird over Westminster. Immediately, Jeremy Corbyn dropped his communist symbolism and instead brandished finger guns, made of actual fingers. Like, his own fingers. Finger guns. She crumbled like a fresh Jaffa Cake because a Jaffa Cake is a fucking cake not a bastard biscuit so go fuck yourself Lindsay, you know nothing about the culinary arts. Chunks of old tory flesh littered the streets of London and Corbyn tossed his beard, which had grown three feet in length with the sheer power of the socialist revolution, and trundled off to watch the episode of Countdown he had put on series record.

            George lay, speechless, staring fruitlessly into the clouds. His vision was blurred and his hearing fuzzy. Suddenly, once again, he heard his name, but this time spoke lovingly, longingly, sexually and, in an instance, he was aware of hands grasping, grabbing him and hoisting him up like a rake does to leaves (shout out to gardeners ayyy) onto his rescuers strong and stable shoulders. Everything faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one time, TobyValue (co-writer's pseudonym) had a dream where Tony Blair came into a cafe and just stabbed her in the abdomen. She just said "Oh my god, it's Tony Blair!" like she was just really starstruck and didn't notice she was bleeding to death. Thought I'd share this metaphor for New Labour with you, our loyal readers.


	4. Yeast and God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW PEOPLE

Gideon awoke to the gentle crackling of the fireplace. His lilac jumper was strewn over an old armchair and it looked like snow on a cathedral.

Cameron balanced precariously on top of the wardrobe in his bedroom, gazing at George’s pale, weak, sleeping corpse body. He noticed him stir almost immediately and swooped down to the bed like when Batman jumps off things. He perched on the side of the four-poster and pressed the back of his hand to George’s forehead. 

“Oh,” said George, startled. His eyes shot open and he soon realised he was tucked into the Prime Minister’s marital bed. A feeling of intense relief and admiration seized his racing heart when their eyes met and George sighed, leaning into his touch. 

“Are you okay, George?” he said, his tone soft and laden with fondness.

George didn’t answer, but he allowed a slight smile to play upon his cold, thin lips and his hand snaked from where it was clutching his right bollock to the Prime Minister’s cheek which he caressed gently. It smelled like cheese, George was sure of it. David returned the fond smile before it suddenly vanished to be replaced with an expression of severe (and I mean SEVERE) lust. 

“George…” David began, but George pulled him down to him, into a desperate kiss which made spit fly all over the shop. David, now wet with lust and Gideon’s spit, lifted himself over Gideon.

There was an awkward silence.

It felt like years; Gideon had longing in his eyes, as well as a head full of expectations fueled by the many erotic novels he’d read, paid for by the taxpayer. George began picking at the buttons on David’s dress shirt one by one hastily and with haste. His shirt fell open to reveal a rippling collection of rolls with a light smattering of chest hair surrounding his nipples only. George reached his face up and sniffed David’s bare chest like one of those police dogs that go mad when he walks past them with half a pound of coke in his back pocket. Mmmmm, Lynx Africa, he thought. David reached down to his own jeans (because he wears jeans now, what exactly is to say that he doesn’t?) and slowly unbuckled his belt, his attention still with the Chancellor.

Then, David reached down, down into the abys where George’s nether regions took residence as a pulsating drum and base rhythm grew in the distance. Just as Cameron’s slimy fingers reached his destination, the muffle noise of Public Enemy’s ‘Fight the Power’ blared in the corridor, finally reaching its maximum volume when SAMANTHA Cameron walked into the room. The men froze. A string of saliva hung between David and George’s lower lips as Samantha gaped in horror and turned her snapback the right way round. She felt this moment didn’t call for such edgy attire. 

George was doing his best to look shocked and horrified, but the extent of his arousal had peaked and he balanced on the brink of organism, the PM’s hand still grasped around his tiny penis. 

She sinisterly moonwalked away without uttering a syllable.

David scrambled from atop his companion and fumbled with his Armani belt buckle which he’d unfastened in the haste to achieve a double dip recession (*winks suggestively*). He stood by the bed, gasping and clutching his hips, but he stayed put. George had expected him to run after SamCam, but for some reason he stayed.  
George stood and realised his lower half was without clothes for the first time. His erection stood strong and stable as he slapped it away, staring desperately at David without saying a word. 

David let his eyes flutter closed and he sighed deeply, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling George down to join him. Half of George’s skeletal torso was draped over Cameron’s as he spoke.

“She’s known for ages about Nick,” he said, and George winced at the name, but said nothing. “I’m sorry George.” 

“I love you,” blurted George for the first time.

David responded with some ill timed finger guns.


End file.
